Alice reached home again on Christmas Eve. It was snowing; she came in
chilled and looking miserable. Mrs. Mutimer met her in the hall, passed
her, and looked out at the open door, then turned with a few white
flecks on her gown.
‘Where’s Dick?
‘He couldn’t come,’ replied the girl briefly, and ran up to her room.
‘Arry was spending the evening with friends. Since tea-time the old
woman had never ceased moving from room to room, up and down stairs. She
had got out an old pair of Richard’s slippers, and had put them before
the dining-room fire to warm. She had made a bed for Richard, and had
a fire burning in the chamber. She had made arrangements for her
eldest son’s supper. No word had come from Wanley, but she held to the
conviction that this night would see Richard in London.
Alice came down and declared that she was very hungry. Her mother went
to the kitchen to order a meal, which in the end she prepared with her
own hands. She seemed to have a difficulty in addressing any one. Whilst
Alice ate in silence, Mrs. Mutimer kept going in and out of the room;
when the girl rose from the table, she stood before her and asked:
‘Why couldn’t he come?’
Alice went to the fireplace, knelt down, and spread her hands to the
blaze. Her mother approached her again.
‘Won’t you give me no answer, Alice?’
‘He couldn’t come, mother. Something important is keeping him.’
‘Something important? And why did he want you there?’
Alice rose to her feet, made one false beginning, then spoke to the
point.
‘Dick’s married, mother.’
The old woman’s eyes seemed to grow small in her wrinkled face, as if
directing themselves with effort upon something minute. They looked
straight into the eyes of her daughter, but had a more distant focus.
The fixed gaze continued for nearly a minute.
‘What are you talking about, girl?’ she said at length, in a strange,
rattling voice. ‘Why, I’ve seen Emma this very morning. Do you think she
wouldn’t ‘a told me if she’d been a wife?’
Alice was frightened by the look and the voice.
‘Mother, it isn’t Emma at all. It’s someone at Wanley. We can’t help it,
mother. It’s no use taking on. Now sit down and make yourself quiet. It
isn’t our fault.’
Mrs. Mutimer smiled in a grim way, then laughed--a most unmusical laugh.
‘Now what’s the good o’ joking in that kind o’ way? That’s like your
father, that is; he’d often come ‘ome an’ tell me sich things as never
was, an’ expect me to believe ‘em. An’ I used to purtend I did, jist
to please him. But I’m too old for that kind o’ jokin’.--Alice, where’s
Dick? How long’ll it be before he’s here? Where did he leave you?’
‘Now do just sit down, mother; here, in this chair. Just sit quiet for a
little, do.’
Mrs. Mutimer pushed aside the girl’s hand; her face had become grave
again.
‘Let me be, child. And I tell you I have seen Emma to-day. Do you think
she wouldn’t ‘a told me if things o’ that kind was goin’ on?’
‘Emma knows nothing about it, mother. He hasn’t told any one. He got me
to come because he couldn’t tell it himself. It was as much a surprise
to me as to you, and I think it’s very cruel of him. But it’s over, and
we can’t help it. I shall have to tell Emma, I suppose, and a nice thing
too!’
The old woman had begun to quiver; her hands shook by her sides, her
very features trembled with gathering indignation.
‘Dick has gone an’ done this?’ she stammered. ‘He’s gone an’ broke his
given word? He’s deceived that girl as trusted to him an’ couldn’t help
herself?’
‘Now, mother, don’t take on so! You’re going to make yourself ill. It
can’t be helped. He says he shall send Emma money just the same.’
‘Money! There you’ve hit the word; it’s money as ‘as ruined him, and as
‘ll be the ruin of us all. Send her money! What does the man think she’s
made of? Is all his feelings got as hard as money? and does he think the
same of every one else? If I know Emma, she’ll throw his money in his
face. I knew what ‘ud come of it, don’t tell me I didn’t. That very
night as he come ‘ome an’ told me what had ‘appened, there was a cold
shiver run over me. I told him as it was the worst news ever come into
our ‘ouse, and now see if I wasn’t right! He was angry with me ‘cause
I said it, an’ who’s a right to be angry now? It’s my belief as money’s
the curse o’ this world; I never knew a trouble yet as didn’t somehow
come of it, either ‘cause there was too little or else too much. And
Dick’s gone an’ done this? And him with all his preachin’ about rights
and wrongs an’ what not! Him as was always a-cryin’ down the rich folks
‘cause they hadn’t no feelin’ for the poor! What feeling’s _he_ had, I’d
like to know? It’s him as is rich now, an’ where’s the difference ‘tween
him and them as he called names? No feelin’ for the poor! An’ what’s
Emma Vine? Poor enough by now. There’s Jane as can’t have not a week
more to live, an’ she a-nursin’ her night an’ day. He’ll give her
money!--has he got the face to say it? Nay, don’t talk to me, girl; I’ll
say what I think if it’s the last I speak in this world. Don’t let him
come to me! Never a word again shall he have from me as long as I live.
He’s disgraced himself, an’ me his mother, an’ his father in the grave.
A poor girl as couldn’t help herself, as trusted him an’ wouldn’t hear
not a word against him, for all he kep’ away from her in her trouble.
I’d a fear o’ this, but I wouldn’t believe it of Dick; I wouldn’t
believe it of a son o’ mine. An’ ‘Arry ‘ll go the same way. It’s all the
money, an a curse go with all the money as ever was made! An’ you too,
Alice, wi’ your fine dresses, an’ your piannerin’, an’ your faldedals.
But I warn you, my girl. There ‘ll no good come of it. I warn you,
Alice! You’re ashamed o’ your own mother--oh, I’ve seen it! But it’s
a mercy if you’re not a disgrace to her. I’m thankful as I was always
poor; I might ‘a been tempted i’ the same way.’
The dogma of a rude nature full of secret forces found utterance at
length under the scourge of a resentment of very mingled quality. Let
half be put to the various forms of disinterested feeling, at least half
was due to personal exasperation. The whole change that her life had
perforce undergone was an outrage upon the stubbornness of uninstructed
habit; the old woman could see nothing but evil omens in a revolution
which cost her bodily discomfort and the misery of a mind perplexed amid
alien conditions. She was prepared for evil; for months she had brooded
over every sign which seemed to foretell its approach; the egoism of
the unconscious had made it plain to her that the world must suffer in
a state of things which so grievously affected herself. Maternal
solicitude kept her restlessly swaying between apprehension for her
children and injury in the thought of their estrangement from her.
And now at length a bitter shame added itself to her torments. She was
shamed in her pride as a mother, shamed before the girl for whom she
nourished a deep affection. Emma’s injuries she felt charged upon
herself; she would never dare to stand before her again. Her moral code,
as much a part of her as the sap of the plant and as little the result
of conscious absorption, declared itself on the side of all these
rushing impulses; she was borne blindly on an exhaustless flux of words.
After vain attempts to make herself heard, Alice turned away and sat
sullenly waiting for the outburst to spend itself. Herself comparatively
unaffected by the feelings strongest in her mother, this ear-afflicting
clamour altogether checked her sympathy, and in a great measure overcame
those personal reasons which had made her annoyed with Richard. She
found herself taking his side, even knew something of his impatience
with Emma and her sorrows. When it came to rebukes and charges against
herself her impatience grew active. She stood up again and endeavoured
to make herself heard.
‘What’s the good of going on like this, mother? Just because you’re
angry, that’s no reason you should call us all the names you can turn
your tongue to. It’s over and done with, and there’s an end of it. I
don’t know what you mean about disgracing you; I think you might wait
till the time comes. I don’t see what I’ve done as you can complain of.’
‘No, of course you don’t,’ pursued her mother bitterly. ‘It’s the money
as prevents you from seeing it. Them as was good enough for you before
you haven’t a word to say to now; a man as works honestly for his living
you make no account of. Well, well, you must go your own way--’
‘What is it you want, mother? You don’t expect me to look no higher than
when I hadn’t a penny but what I worked for? I’ve no patience with you.
You ought to be glad--’
‘You haven’t no patience, of course you haven’t. And I’m to be glad when
a son of mine does things as he deserves to be sent to prison for! I
don’t understand that kind o’ gladness. But mind what I say; do what you
like with your money, I’ll have no more part in it. If I had as much as
ten shillings a week of my own, I’d go and live by myself, and leave you
to take your own way. But I tell you what I _can_ do, and what I will.
I’ll have no more servants a-waitin’ on _me_; I wasn’t never used to it,
and I’m too old to begin. I go to my own bedroom upstairs, and there I
live, and there ‘ll be nobody go into that room but myself. I’ll get my
bits o’ meals from the kitchen. ‘Tain’t much as I want, thank goodness,
an’ it won’t be missed. I’ll have no more doin’s with servants,
understand that; an’ if I can’t be left alone i’ my own room, I’ll go
an’ find a room where I can, an’ I’ll find some way of earnin’ what
little I want. It’s your own house, and you’ll do what you like in it.
There’s the keys, I’ve done with ‘em; an’ here’s the money too, I’m glad
to be rid of it. An’ you’ll just tell Dick. I ain’t one as says what I
don’t mean, nor never was, as that you know. You take your way, an’ I’ll
take mine. An’ now may be I’ll get a night’s sleep, the first I’ve had
under this roof.’
As she spoke she took from her pockets the house keys, and from her
purse the money she used for current expenses, and threw all together on
to the table. Alice had turned to the fireplace, and she stood so for a
long time after her mother had left the room. Then she took the keys and
the money, consulted her watch, and in a few minutes was walking from
the house to a neighbouring cab-stand.
She drove to Wilton Square. Inspecting the front of the house before
knocking at the door, she saw a light in the kitchen and a dimmer gleam
at an upper window. It was Mrs. Clay who opened to her.
‘Is Emma in?’ Alice inquired as she shook hands rather coldly.
‘She’s sitting with Jane. I’ll tell her. There’s no fire except in the
kitchen,’ Kate added, in a tone which implied that doubtless her visitor
was above taking a seat downstairs.
‘I’ll go down,’ Alice replied, with just a touch of condescension. ‘I
want to speak a word or two with Emma, that’s all.’
Kate left her to descend the stairs, and went to inform her sister. Emma
was not long in appearing; the hue of her face was troubled, for she had
deceived herself with the belief that it was Richard who knocked at the
door. What more natural than for him to have come on Christmas Eve?
She approached Alice with a wistful look, not venturing to utter any
question, only hoping that some good news might have been brought her.
Long watching in the sick room had given her own complexion the tint of
ill-health; her eyelids were swollen and heavy; the brown hair upon
her temples seemed to droop in languor. You would have noticed that her
tread was very soft, as if she still were moving in the room above.
‘How’s Jane?’ Alice began by asking. She could not quite look the other
in the face, and did not know how to begin her disclosure.
‘No better,’ Emma gave answer, shaking her head. Her voice, too, was
suppressed; it was weeks since she had spoken otherwise.
‘I am so sorry, Emma. Are you in a hurry to go up again?’
‘No. Kate will sit there a little.’
‘You look very poorly yourself. It must be very trying for you.’
‘I don’t feel it,’ Emma said, with a pale smile. ‘She gives no trouble.
It’s only her weakness now; the pain has almost gone.’
‘But then she must be getting better.’
Emma shook her head, looking aside. As Alice kept silence, she
continued:
‘I was glad to hear you’d gone to see Richard. He wouldn’t--I was afraid
he mightn’t have time to get here for Christmas.’
There was a question in the words, a timorously expectant question.
Emma had learnt the sad lesson of hope deferred, always to meet
discouragement halfway. It is thus one seeks to propitiate the evil
powers, to turn the edge of their blows by meekness.
‘No, he couldn’t come,’ said Alice.
She had a muff on her left hand, and was turning it round and round with
the other. Emma had not asked her to sit down, merely because of the
inward agitation which absorbed her.
‘He’s quite well?’
‘Oh yes, quite well.’
Again Alice paused. Emma’s heart was beating painfully. She knew now
that Richard’s sister had not come on an ordinary visit; she felt that
the call to Wanley had had some special significance. Alice did not
ordinarily behave in this hesitating way.
‘Did--did he send me a message?’
‘Yes.’
But even now Alice could not speak. She found a way of leading up to the
catastrophe.
‘Oh, mother has been going on so, Emma! What do you think? She won’t
have anything to do with the house any longer. She’s given me the keys
and all the money she had, and she’s going to live just in her bedroom.
She says she’ll get her food from the kitchen herself, and she won’t
have a thing done for her by any one. I’m sure she means it; I never saw
her in such a state. She says if she’d ever so little money of her own,
she’d leave the house altogether. She’s been telling me I’ve no feeling,
and that I’m going to the bad, that I shall live to disgrace her, and I
can’t tell you what. Everything is so miserable! She says it’s all the
money, and that she knew from the first how it would be. And I’m afraid
some of what she says is true, I am indeed, Emma. But things happen in a
way you could never think. I half wish myself the money had never come.
It’s making us all miserable.’
Emma listened, expecting from phrase to phrase some word which would be
to her a terrible enlightenment But Alice had ceased, and the word still
unspoken.
‘You say he sent me a message?’
She did not ask directly the cause of Mrs. Mutimer’s anger. Instinct
told her that to hear the message would explain all else.
‘Emma, I’m afraid to tell you. You’ll blame _me_, like mother did.’
‘I shan’t blame you, Alice. Will you please tell me the message?’
Emma’s lips seemed to speak without her volition. The rest o her face
was fixed and cold.
‘He’s married, Emma.’
‘He asked you to tell me?’
Alice was surprised at the self-restraint proved by so quiet an
interrogation.
‘Yes, he did. Emma, I’m so, so sorry! If only you’ll believe I’m sorry,
Emma! He _made_ me come and tell you. He said if I didn’t you’d have to
find out by chance, because he couldn’t for shame tell you himself. And
he couldn’t tell mother neither. I’ve had it all to do. If you knew what
I’ve gone through with mother! It’s very hard that other people should
suffer so much just on his account. I am really sorry for you, Emma.’
‘Who is it he’s married?’ Emma asked. Probably all the last speech had
been but a vague murmur to her ears.
‘Some one at Wanley.’
‘A lady?’
‘Yes, I suppose she’s a lady.’
‘You didn’t see her, then?’
‘Yes, I saw her. I don’t like her.’
Poor Alice meant this to be soothing. Emma knew it, and smiled.
‘I don’t think she cares much after all,’ Alice said to herself.
‘But was that the message?’
‘Only to tell you of it, Emma. There was something else,’ she added
immediately; ‘not exactly a message, but he told me, and I dare say he
thought I should let you know. He said that of course you were to have
the money still as usual.’
Over the listener’s face came a cloud, a deep, turbid red. It was not
anger, but shame which rose from the depths of her being. Her head sank;
she turned and walked aside.
‘You’re not angry with _me_, Emma?’
‘Not angry at all, Alice,’ was the reply in a monotone.
‘I must say good-bye now. I hope you won t take on much. And I hope Jane
‘ll soon be better.’
‘Thank you. I must go up to her; she doesn’t like me to be away long.’
Alice went before up the kitchen stairs, the dark, narrow stairs which
now seemed to her so poverty-stricken. Emma did not speak, but pressed
her hand at the door.
Kate stood above her on the first landing, and, as Emma came up,
whispered:
‘Has he come?’
‘Something has hindered him.’ And Emma added, ‘He couldn’t help it.’
‘Well, then, I think he ought to have helped it,’ said the other tartly.
‘When does he mean to come, I’d like to know?’
‘It’s uncertain.’
Emma passed into the sick-room. Her sister followed her with eyes of
ill-content, then returned to the kitchen.
Jane lay against pillows. Red light from the fire played over her face,
which was wasted beyond recognition. She looked a handmaiden of Death.
The atmosphere of the room was warm and sickly. A small green-shaded
lamp stood by the looking-glass in front of the window; it cast a disk
of light below, and on the ceiling concentric rings of light and shade,
which flickered ceaselessly, and were at times all but obliterated in a
gleam from the fireplace. A kettle sang on the trivet.
The sick girl’s hands lay on the counterpane; one of them moved as Emma
came to the bedside, and rested when the warmer fingers clasped it.
There was eager inquiry in the sunken eyes; her hand tried to raise
itself, but in vain.
‘What did Alice say?’ she asked, in quick feeble tones. ‘Is he coming?’
‘Not for Christmas, I’m afraid, dear. He’s still very busy.’
‘But he sent you a message?’
‘Yes. He would have come if he could.’
‘Did you tell Alice I wanted to see her? Why didn’t she come up? Why did
she stay such a short time?’
‘She couldn’t stay to-night, Jane. Are you easy still, love?’
‘Oh, I did so want to see her. Why couldn’t she stop, Emma? It wasn’t
kind of her to go without seeing me. I’d have made time if it had been
her as was lying in bed. And he doesn’t even answer what I wrote to him.
It was such work to write--I couldn’t now; and he might have answered.’
‘He very seldom writes to any one, you know, Jane. He has so little
time.’
‘Little time! I have less, Emma, and he must know that. It’s unkind of
him. What did Alice tell you? Why did he want her to go there? Tell me
everything.’
Emma felt the sunken eyes burning her with their eager look. She
hesitated, pretended to think of something that had to be done, and the
eyes burned more and more. Jane made repeated efforts to raise herself,
as if to get a fuller view of her sister’s face.
‘Shall I move you?’ Emma asked. ‘Would you like another pillow?’
‘No, no,’ was the impatient answer. ‘Don’t go away from me; don’t take
your hand away. I want to know all that Alice said. You haven’t any
secrets from me, Emmy. Why _does_ he stay away so long? It seems years
since he came to see you. It’s wrong of him. There’s no business ought
to keep him away all this time. Look at me, and tell me what she said.’
‘Only that he hadn’t time. Dear, you mustn’t excite yourself so. Isn’t
it all right, Jane, as long as I don’t mind it?’
‘Why do you look away from me? No, it isn’t all right. Oh, I can’t rest,
I can’t lie here! Why haven’t I strength to go and say to him what I
want to say? I thought it was him when the knock came. When Kate told
me it wasn’t, I felt as if my heart was sinking down; and I don’t seem
to have no tears left to cry. It ‘ud ease me a little if I could. And
now _you’re_ beginning to have secrets. Emmy!’
It was a cry of anguish. The mention of tears had brought them to Emma’s
eyes, for they lurked very near the surface, and Jane had seen the
firelight touch on a moist cheek. For an instant she raised herself
from the pillows. Emma folded soft arms about her and pressed her cheek
against the heat which consumed her sister’s.
‘Emmy, I must know,’ wailed the sick girl. ‘Is it what I’ve been afraid
of? No, not that! Is it the worst of all? You must tell me now. You
don’t love me if you keep away the truth. I can’t have anything between
you and me.’
A dry sob choked her; she gasped for breath. Emma, fearful lest the very
life was escaping from her embrace, drew away and looked in anguish.
Her involuntary tears had ceased, but she could no longer practise
deception. The cost to Jane was greater perhaps than if she knew the
truth. At least their souls must be united ere it was too late.
‘The truth, Emmy!’
‘I will tell it you, darling,’ she replied, with quiet sadness. ‘It’s
for him that I’m sorry. I never thought anything could tempt him to
break his word. Think of it in the same way as I do, dear-sister; don’t
be sorry for me, but for him.’
‘He’s never coming? He won’t marry you?’
‘He’s already married, Jane. Alice came to tell me.’
Again she would have raised herself, but this time there was no
strength. Not even her arms could she lift from the coverlets. But Emma
saw the vain effort, raised the thin arms, put them about her neck, and
held her sister to her heart as if for eternity.
‘Darling, darling, it isn’t hard to bear. I care for nothing but your
love. Live for my sake, dearest dear; I have forgotten every one and
everything but you. It’s so much better. I couldn’t have changed my
life so; I was never meant to be rich. It seems unkind of him, but in a
little time we shall see it was best. Only you, Janey; you have my
whole heart, and I’m so glad to feel it is so. Live, and I’ll give every
minute of my life to loving you, poor sufferer.’
Jane could not breathe sound into the words she would have spoken. She
lay with her eyes watching the fire-play on the ceiling. Her respiration
was quick and feeble.
Mutimer’s name was not mentioned by either again that night, by one of
them never again. Such silence was his punishment.
Kate entered the room a little before midnight. She saw one of Jane’s
hands raised to impose silence. Emma, still sitting by the bedside,
slept; her head rested on the pillows. The sick had become the watcher.
‘She’d better go to bed,’ Kate whispered. ‘I’ll wake her.’
‘No, no You needn’t stay, Kate. I don’t want anything. Let her sleep as
she is.’
The elder sister left the room. Then Jane approached her head to that of
the sleeper, softly, softly, and her arm stole across Emma’s bosom and
rested on her farther shoulder. The fire burned with little whispering
tongues of flame; the circles of light and shade quivered above the
lamp. Abroad the snow fell and froze upon the ground.
Three days later Alice Mutimer, as she sat at breakfast, was told that
a visitor named Mrs. Clay desired to see her. It was nearly ten o’clock;
Alice had no passion for early rising, and since her mother’s retirement
from the common table she breakfasted alone at any hour which seemed
good to her. ‘Arry always--or nearly always--left the house at eight
o’clock.
Mrs. Clay was introduced into the dining-room. Alice received her with
an anxious face, for she was anticipating trouble from the house in
Wilton Square. But the trouble was other than she had in mind.
‘Jane died at four o’clock this morning,’ the visitor began, without
agitation, in the quick, unsympathetic voice which she always used when
her equanimity was in any way disturbed. ‘Emma hasn’t closed her eyes
for two days and nights, and now I shouldn’t wonder if she’s going to be
ill herself. I made her lie down, and then came out just to ask you to
write to your brother. Surely he’ll come now. I don’t know what to do
about the burying; we ought to have some one to help us. I expected your
mother would be coming to see us, but she’s kept away all at once. Will
you write to Dick?’
Alice was concerned to perceive that Kate was still unenlightened.
‘Did Emma know you were coming?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I suppose she did. But it’s hard to get her to attend to anything.
I’ve left her alone, ‘cause there wasn’t any one I could fetch at once.
Will you write to-day?’
‘Yes, I’ll see to it,’ said Alice. ‘Have some breakfast, will you?’
‘Well, I don’t mind just a cup o’ coffee. It’s very cold, and I had to
walk a long way before I could get a ‘bus.’
Whilst Kate refreshed herself, Alice played nervously with her
tea-spoon, trying to make up her mind what must be done. The situation
was complicated with many miseries, but Alice had experienced a growth
of independence since her return from Wanley. All she had seen and heard
whilst with her brother had an effect upon her in the afterthought, and
her mother’s abrupt surrender into her hands of the household control
gave her, when she had time to realise it, a sense of increased
importance not at all disagreeable. Already she had hired a capable
servant in addition to the scrubby maid-of-all-work who had sufficed
for Mrs. Mutimer, and it was her intention that henceforth domestic
arrangements should be established on quite another basis.
‘I’ll telegraph to Dick,’ she said, presently. ‘I’ve no doubt he’ll see
that everything’s done properly.’
‘But won’t he come himself?’
‘We shall see.’
‘Is your mother in?’
‘She’s not very well; I don’t think I must disturb her with bad news.
Tell Emma I’m very sorry, will you? I do hope she isn’t going to be ill.
You must see that she gets rest now. Was it sudden?’ she added, showing
in her face how little disposed she was to dwell on such gloomy subjects
as death and burial.
‘She was wandering all yesterday. I don’t think she knew anything after
eight o’clock last night. She went off in a sleep.’
When the visitor had gone, Alice drove to the nearest telegraph office
and despatched a message to her brother, giving the news and asking
what should be done. By three o’clock in the afternoon no reply had yet
arrived; but shortly after Mr. Keene presented himself at the house.
Alice had not seen him since her return. He bowed to her with extreme
gravity, and spoke in a subdued voice.
‘I grieve that I have lost time, Miss Mutimer. Important business had
taken me from home, and on my return I found a telegram from Wanley.
Your brother directs me to wait upon you at once, on a very sad subject,
I fear. He instructs me to purchase a grave in Manor Park Cemetery. No
near relative, I trust?’
‘No, only a friend,’ Alice replied. ‘You’ve heard me speak of a girl
called Emma Vine. It’s a sister of hers. She died this morning, and they
want help about the funeral.’
‘Precisely, precisely. You know with what zeal I hasten to perform
your’--a slight emphasis on this word--‘brother’s pleasure, be the
business what it may. I’ll see about it at once. I was to say to you
that your brother would be in town this evening.’
‘Oh, very well. But you needn’t look so gloomy, you know, Mr. Keene.
I’m very sorry, but then she’s been ill for a very long time, and it’s
really almost a relief--to her sisters, I mean.’
‘I trust you enjoyed your visit to Wanley, Miss Mutimer?’ said Keene,
still preserving his very respectful tone and bearing.
‘Oh yes, thanks. I dare say I shall go there again before very long. No
doubt you’ll be glad to hear that.’
‘I will try to be, Miss Mutimer. I trust that your pleasure is my first
consideration in life.’
Alice was, to speak vulgarly, practising on Mr. Keene. He was her
first visitor since she had entered upon rule, and she had a double
satisfaction in subduing him with airs and graces. She did not trouble
to reflect that under the circumstances he might think her rather
heartless, and indeed hypocrisy was not one of her failings. Her
_naivete_ constituted such charm as she possessed; in the absence of any
deep qualities it might be deemed a virtue, for it was inconsistent with
serious deception.
‘I suppose you mean you’d really much rather I stayed here?’
Keene eyed her with observation. He himself had slight depth for a man
doomed to live by his wits, and he was under the disadvantage of really
feeling something of what he said. He was not a rascal by predilection;
merely driven that way by the forces which in our social state
abundantly make for rascality.
‘Miss Mutimer,’ he replied, with a stage sigh, ‘why do you tempt
my weakness? I am on my honour; I am endeavouring to earn your good
opinion. Spare me!’
‘Oh, I’m sure there’s no harm in you, Mr. Keene. I suppose you’d better
go and see after your--your business.’
‘You are right. I go at once, Princess. I may call you Princess?’
‘Well, I don’t know about that. Of course only when there’s no one else
in the room.’
‘But I shall think it always.’
‘That I can’t prevent, you know.’
‘Ah, I fear you mean nothing, Miss Mutimer.’
‘Nothing at all.’
He took his leave, and Alice enjoyed reflecting upon the dialogue, which
certainly had meant nothing for her in any graver sense.
‘Now, that’s what the books call _flirtation_,’ she said to herself. ‘I
think I can do that.’
And on the whole she could, vastly better than might have been expected
of her birth and breeding.
At six o’clock a note was delivered for her. Richard wrote from an hotel
in the neighbourhood, asking her to come to him. She found him in a
private sitting-room, taking a meal.
‘Why didn’t you come to the house?’ she asked. ‘You knew mother never
comes down-stairs.’
Richard looked at her with lowered brows.
‘You mean to say she’s doing that in earnest?’
‘That she is She comes down early in the morning and gets all the food
she wants for the day. I heard her cooking something in a frying-pan
to-day. She hasn’t been out of the house yet.’
‘Does she know about Jane?’
‘No. I know what it would be if I went and told her.’
He ate in silence. Alice waited.
‘You must go and see Emma,’ was his next remark. ‘Tell her there’s a
grave in Manor Park Cemetery; her father and mother were buried there,
you know. Keene ‘ll look after it all and he’ll come and tell you what
to do.’
‘Why did you come up?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t talk about these things in letters. You’ll have to tell
mother; she might want to go to the funeral.’
‘I don’t see why I should do all your disagreeable work, Dick!’
‘Very well, don’t do it,’ he replied sullenly, throwing down his knife
and fork.
A scene of wrangling followed, without violence, but of the kind
which is at once a cause and an effect of demoralisation. The old
disagreements between them had been in another tone, at all events on
Richard’s side, for they had arisen from his earnest disapproval of
frivolities and the like. Richard could no longer speak in that way. To
lose the power of honest reproof in consequence of a moral lapse is to
any man a wide-reaching calamity; to a man of Mutimer’s calibre it meant
disaster of which the end could not be foreseen.
Of course Alice yielded; her affection and Richard’s superior force
always made it a foregone result that she should do so.
‘And you won’t come and see mother?’ she asked.
‘No. She’s behaving foolishly.’
‘It’s precious dull at home, I can tell you. I can’t go on much longer
without friends of some kind. I’ve a good mind to marry Mr. Keene, just
for a change.’
Richard started up, with his fist on the table.
‘Do you mean to say he’s been talking to you in that way?’ he cried
angrily.
Alice had spoken with thoughtless petulance. She hastened eagerly to
correct her error.
‘As if I meant it! Don’t be stupid, Dick. Of course he hasn’t said a
word; I believe he’s engaged to somebody; I thought so from something he
said a little while ago. The idea of me marrying a man like that!’
He examined her closely, and Alice was not afraid of telltale cheeks.
‘Well, I can’t think you’d be such a fool. If I thought there was any
danger of that, I’d soon stop it.’
‘Would you, indeed! Why, that would be just the way to make me say I’d
have him. You’d have known that if only you read novels.’
‘Novels!’ he exclaimed, with profound contempt. ‘Don’t go playing with
that kind of thing; it’s dangerous. At least you can wait a week or two
longer. I’ve only let him see so much of you because I felt sure you’d
got common sense.’
‘Of course I have. But what’s to happen in a week or two?’
‘I should think you might come to Wanley for a little. We shall see. If
mother had only ‘Arry in the house, she might come back to her senses.’
‘Shall I tell her you’ve been to London?’
‘You can if you like,’ he replied, with a show of indifference.
Jane Vine was buried on Sunday afternoon, her sisters alone accompanying
her to the grave. Alice had with difficulty obtained admission to
her mother’s room, and it seemed to her that the news she brought
was received with little emotion. The old woman had an air of dogged
weariness; she did not look her daughter in the face, and spoke only in
monosyllables. Her face was yellow, her cheeks like wrinkled parchment.
Manor Park Cemetery lies in the remote East End, and gives
sleeping-places to the inhabitants of a vast district. There Jane’s
parents lay, not in a grave to themselves, but buried amidst the
nameless dead, in that part of the ground reserved for those who can
purchase no more than a portion in the foss which is filled when its
occupants reach statutable distance from the surface. The regions around
were then being built upon for the first time; the familiar streets of
pale, damp brick were stretching here and there, continuing London,
much like the spreading of a disease. Epping Forest is near at hand, and
nearer the dreary expanse of Wanstead Flats.
Not grief, but chill desolation makes this cemetery its abode. A country
churchyard touches the tenderest memories, and softens the heart with
longing for the eternal rest. The cemeteries of wealthy London abound in
dear and great associations, or at worst preach homilies which connect
themselves with human dignity and pride. Here on the waste limits of
that dread East, to wander among tombs is to go hand in hand with the
stark and eyeless emblem of mortality; the spirit falls beneath the cold
burden of ignoble destiny. Here lie those who were born for toll;
who, when toil has worn them to the uttermost, have but to yield their
useless breath and pass into oblivion. For them is no day, only the
brief twilight of a winter sky between the former and the latter night
For them no aspiration; for them no hope of memory in the dust; their
very children are wearied into forgetfulness. Indistinguishable units
in the vast throng that labours but to support life, the name of each,
father, mother, child, is as a dumb cry for the warmth and love of which
Fate so stinted them. The wind wails above their narrow tenements; the
sandy soil, soaking in the rain as soon as it has fallen, is a symbol
of the great world which absorbs their toil and straightway blots their
being.
It being Sunday afternoon the number of funerals was considerable;
even to bury their dead the toilers cannot lose a day of the wage
week. Around the chapel was a great collection of black vehicles with
sham-tailed mortuary horses; several of the families present must have
left themselves bare in order to clothe a coffin in the way they deemed
seemly. Emma and her sister had made their own funeral garments, and the
former, in consenting for the sake of poor Jane to receive the aid which
Mutimer offered, had insisted through Alice that there should be no
expenditure beyond the strictly needful. The carriage which conveyed her
and Kate alone followed the hearse from Hoxton; it rattled along at a
merry pace, for the way was lengthy, and a bitter wind urged men and
horses to speed. The occupants of the box kept up a jesting colloquy.
Impossible to read the burial service over each of the dead separately;
time would not allow it. Emma and Kate found themselves crowded among
a number of sobbing women, just in time to seat themselves before the
service began. Neither of them had moist eyes; the elder looked about
the chapel with blank gaze, often shivering with cold; Emma’s face was
bent downwards, deadly pale, set in unchanging woe. A world had fallen
to pieces about her; she did not feel the ground upon which she trod;
there seemed no way from amid the ruins. She had no strong religious
faith; a wail in the darkness was all the expression her heart could
attain to; in the present anguish she could not turn her thoughts to
that far vision of a life hereafter. All day she had striven to realise
that a box of wood contained all that was left of her sister. The
voice of the clergyman struck her ear with meaningless monotony. Not
immortality did she ask for, but one more whisper from the lips that
could not speak, one throb of the heart she had striven so despairingly
to warm against her own.
Kate was plucking at her arm, for the service was over, and
unconsciously she was impeding people who wished to pass from the seats.
With difficulty she rose and walked; the cold seemed to have checked
the flow of her blood; she noticed the breath rising from her mouth,
and wondered that she could have so much whilst those dear lips were
breathless. Then she was being led over hard snow, towards a place where
men stood, where there was new-turned earth, where a coffin lay upon the
ground. She suffered the sound of more words which she could not follow,
then heard the dull falling of clods upon hollow wood. A hand seemed to
clutch her throat, she struggled convulsively and cried aloud. But the
tears would not come.
No memory of the return home dwelt afterwards in her mind. The white
earth, the headstones sprinkled with snow, the vast grey sky over
which darkness was already creeping, the wind and the clergyman’s voice
joining in woful chant, these alone remained with her to mark the day.
Between it and the days which then commenced lay formless void.
On Tuesday morning Alice Mutimer came to the house. Mrs. Clay chanced
to be from home; Emma received the visitor and led her down into the
kitchen.
‘I am glad you have come,’ she said; ‘I wanted to see you to-day.’
‘Are you feeling better?’ Alice asked. She tried in vain to speak
with the friendliness of past days; that could never be restored. Her
advantages of person and dress were no help against the embarrassment
caused in her by the simple dignity of the wronged and sorrowing girl.
Emma replied that she was better, then asked:
‘Have you come only to see me; or for something else?’
‘I wanted to know how you were; but I’ve brought you something as well’
She took an envelope from within her muff. Emma shook her head.
‘No, nothing more,’ she said, in a tone removed alike from resentment
and from pathos; ‘I want you, please, to say that we can t take anything
after this.’
‘But what are you going to do, Emma?’
‘To leave this house and live as we did before.’
‘Oh, but you can’t do that What does Kate say?’
‘I haven’t told her yet; I’m going to do so to-day.’
‘But she’ll feel it very hard with the children.’
The children were sitting together in a corner of the kitchen. Emma
glanced at them, and saw that Bertie, the elder, was listening with a
surprised look.
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ she replied simply, ‘but we have no choice.’
Alice had an impulse of generosity.
‘Then take it from _me_,’ she said. ‘You won’t mind that. You know I
have plenty of my own. Live here and let one or two of the rooms, and
I’ll lend you what you need till the business is doing well. Now you
can’t have anything to say against that?’
Emma still shook her head.
‘The business will never help us. We must go back to the old work; we
can always live on that. I can’t take anything from you, Alice.’
‘Well, I think it’s very unkind, Emma.’
‘Perhaps so, but I can’t help it: It’s kind of you to offer, I feel
that; but I’d rather work my fingers to the bone than touch one
halfpenny now that I haven’t earned.’
Alice bridled slightly and urged no more. She left before Kate returned.
In the course of the morning Emma strung herself to the effort of
letting her sister know the true state of affairs. It was only what Kate
had for a long time suspected, and she freely said as much, expressing
her sentiments with fluent indignation.
‘Of course I know you won’t hear of it,’ she said, ‘but if I was in your
place I’d make him smart. I’d have him up and make him pay, see if I
wouldn’t. Trust him, he knows you’re too soft-hearted, and he takes
advantage of you. It’s girls like you as encourages men to think they
can do as they like. You’ve no right, you haven’t, to let him off. I’d
have him in the newspapers and show him up, see if I wouldn’t. And he
shan’t have it quite so easy as he thinks neither; I’ll go about and
tell everybody as I know. Only let him come a-lecturin’ hereabouts,
that’s all!’
‘Kate,’ broke in the other, ‘if you do anything of the kind, I don’t
know how I shall speak to you again. Its not you he’s harmed; you’ve no
right to spread talk about me It’s my affair, and I must do as I think
fit. It’s all over and there’s no occasion for neither you nor me to
speak of him again I’m going out this afternoon to find a room for us,
and we shall be no worse off than we was before. We’ve got to work,
that’s all, and to earn our living like other women do.’
Her sister stared incredulously.
‘You mean to say he’s stopped sending money?’
‘I have refused to take it.’
‘You’ve done _what_? Well, of all the--!’ Comparisons failed her. ‘And
I’ve got to take these children back again into a hole like the last?
Not me! You do as you like; I suppose you know your own business. But if
he doesn’t send the money as usual, I’ll find some way to make him, see
if I don’t! You’re off your head, I think.’
Emma had anticipated this, and was prepared to bear the brunt of her
sister’s anger. Kate was not originally blessed with much sweetness of
disposition, and an unhappy marriage had made her into a sour, nagging
woman. But, in spite of her wretched temper and the low moral tone
induced during her years of matrimony, she was not evil-natured, and her
chief safeguard was affection for her sister Emma. This seldom declared
itself, for she was of those unhappily constituted people who find
nothing so hard as to betray the tenderness of which they are capable,
and, as often as not, are driven by a miserable perversity to words and
actions which seem quite inconsistent with such feeling. For Jane she
had cared far less than for Emma, yet her grief at Jane’s death was more
than could be gathered from her demeanour. It had, in fact, resulted in
a state of nervous irritableness; an outbreak of anger came to her as a
relief, such as Emma had recently found in the shedding of tears. On her
own account she felt strongly, but yet more on Emma’s; coarse methods of
revenge naturally suggested themselves to her, and to be thwarted drove
her to exasperation. When Emma persisted in steady opposition, exerting
all the force of her character to subdue her sister’s ignoble purposes,
Kate worked herself to frenzy. For more than an hour her voice was
audible in the street, as she poured forth torrents of furious reproach
and menace; all the time Emma stood patient and undaunted, her own anger
often making terrible struggle for mastery, but ever finding itself
subdued. For she, too, was of a passionate nature, but the treasures of
sensibility which her heart enclosed consecrated all her being to
noble ends. One invaluable aid she had in a contest such as this--her
inability to grow sullen. Righteous anger might gleam in her eyes and
quiver upon her lips, but the fire always burnt clear; it is smoulder
that poisons the air.
She knew her sister, pitied her, always made for her the gentlest
allowances. It would have been easy to stand aside, to disclaim
responsibility, and let Kate do as she chose, but the easy course was
never the one she chose when endurance promised better results. To
resist to the uttermost, even to claim and exert the authority she
derived from her suffering, was, she knew, the truest kindness to her
sister. And in the end she prevailed. Kate tore her passion to tatters,
then succumbed to exhaustion. But she did not fling out of the room, and
this Emma knew to be a hopeful sign. The opportunity of strong, placid
speech at length presented itself, and Emma used it well. She did not
succeed in eliciting a promise, but when she declared her confidence
in her sister’s better self, Kate made no retort, only sat in stubborn
muteness.
In the afternoon Emma went forth to fulfil her intention of finding
lodgings. She avoided the neighbourhood in which she had formerly lived,
and after long search discovered what she wanted in a woful byway near
Old Street. It was one room only, but larger than she had hoped to come
upon; fortunately her own furniture had been preserved, and would now
suffice.
Kate remained sullen, but proved by her actions that she had
surrendered; she began to pack her possessions. Emma wrote to Alice,
announcing that the house was tenantless; she took the note to Highbury
herself, and left it at the door, together with the house key. The
removal was effected after nightfall.